


Blood On My Hands

by Memories_of_the_Shadows



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Suicide, Gen, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, mention of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-07
Updated: 2007-06-07
Packaged: 2019-03-03 09:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memories_of_the_Shadows/pseuds/Memories_of_the_Shadows
Summary: This is one of my horror stories. It contains an older Harry, on the road to insanity.





	Blood On My Hands

I stare at my hands.

They look perfectly normal to someone else, I know this. It doesn't stop the blood I can see all the time, the blood of innocents that my enemies have killed to get to me.

I can see the blood dripping from my fingertips; hear it ping against the floor, making a parody of the music that I can hear my wife playing on the radio downstairs.

Ah, yes, my wife.

I never wanted to marry her; most people thought that I loved her too much to put her in direct line of fire. That's such a lie that it makes me sick.

I hate her; hate her red hair, her kind eyes, her unshadowed smile. She has no right to be like that. She has a past just as horrible as mine, what right does she have to be so naïve, so innocent?

I sit on the leather chair, one that, I'm told, my grandfather sat in whilst conducting family business. I never knew him. Just like I never knew my parents.

But I can feel him sometimes. I leave off staring at my hands to whisper to him, "I did my duty, Grandfather. Not to the wizarding world, no. But to my family; I have an heir."

I return to staring at my hands, the blood staining them red.

I have the insane urge to make that blood real, to make the pain go away.

"Why not," I whisper. "I have nothing else to live for…"

I reach for my letter opening knife, perhaps not as sharp as it could be, but I deserve the pain.

I dig the knife deep into my wrist, enjoying the biting pain that travels throughout my body that will be among the last things I feel.

Then, too make sure that my wife will not be able to save me, I drive the knife into my other wrist.

This blood, my blood, doesn't ping against the wooden floor like the innocents'. It splatters with a wet drip. I take this as one more thing that separates me from the innocents.

A baby's cry distracts me from my reverie. Somehow, out of the trance, I find that my blood doesn't satisfy me.

Therefore, with an angry sigh, I swipe my wand across the wounds; healing them into ugly, twisted scars. To remember.

The baby continues to wail until I pick her up and rock her gently. My daughter glares at me with her pretty blue eyes before falling asleep.

I sit back down in Grandfather's chair, with my dearest daughter, Tisiphone, in my arms, and wonder if this was the beginning of a road to dementia similar to the one that my enemy follows.

Because if my blood does nothing, then I'll have to start with innocents blood.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written and posted on ff.net 7 June 2007. It is a product of my age, various feelings of depression exacerbated by teenage hormones, and this series--I believe--being unfinished at the time. I was in a dark place at the time and most of my work from this time reflects that. I am the original author, and I am not plagiarizing myself.


End file.
